I was talking with a friend as he was complaining about the recent rainy weather. We have had our share, but since last summer’s drought, it is rather refreshing. We chatted a bit about how washing the car is a waste of time and money, and how the only thing we can do about the weather is talk about it, then we parted ways. The conversation did serve to get me to thinking about places I have been, and rains, or lack of rains, I have known. The first place I thought of is Alaska. It rains in southeast Alaska a lot, and for days on end, but you don’t find many who complain. It is expected, and people compensate for it and go about their lives. Besides, you don’t have to shovel rain, which is what you do with the always anticipated and dreaded winter precipitation called snow. The old joke is that when you move from Alaska you drive south with a snowplow on the front of your truck until someone asks, “What’s that?”  Then you know you have found a place where you don’t have to shovel. I thought of rain during the monsoons in Vietnam. Winston Groom described it in “Forest Gump” when he said that it came from all angles; straight down, sideways, and sometimes seeming to come up from the ground. You are wet all the time, and cold. Nothing compares to rain at sea. While sailing, we were never in a severe storm. We were good at predicting the weather, and avoided foulness by staying at anchor, or in port, but squalls are another story. They often come up out of nowhere, and they can be an exciting ride. The rain in a squall, unlike a monsoon, is brief, so to get the water out of its system, it all comes at once from every direction, and you do, in truth, breathe it. A squall will make you humble, and you will swear if you get out of this one, you will never sail again, but when you come out of the storm, the sun is so bright and pure, the sea is calming and blue.  You lie to yourself, and to the Admiral, saying, “That wasn’t so bad,” as you release yourself with shaking hands from where you are tethered with a life-line, and add, “look how clean the boat is.” Your reply is stone cold silence, and a piercing glare. She’ll come around ... later. I have spent much time in deserts, and love them. The contrast of rain, which is to say, there is none, is startling. When you are 30 days or longer without a drop, as we were last summer, you begin to miss it, even to need it. When you go six months, or a year, without rain, you begin to wonder if it will come again. It will, and when it does, nature plays one of its greatest pranks, it all comes at once. I was once camped in the desert in a low area.  When the rain came in the night, it was comforting as it blew against the tent walls, but I woke in the morning to the roar of the dry wash area we were camped near filling up, and I mean right now. One minute it was dry, the next minute it was full. By the time we got camp broken, and we did it in record time, the water was around my ankles. As we drove out of the low area, water was up to the bottom of the 4X4 Jeep. Now, that’s some rain. In the desert, it is all or nothing. It often seems to be that way with rain, all or nothing. When the ground is so dry and you think that it could rain for days straight and the earth would drink it up, comes a deluge to prove you wrong. They are called flash floods for a reason. I love sitting on my porch when it is raining so hard you can’t see the street, with lightning flashes while thunder booms, but I equally love sitting listening to the gentle patter of drops on hard, dry ground. Both are a delight to me as long as I am protected. I’ve been known to go for a walk in the rain, even bathe in it, and there is nothing like rain falling to put me to sleep. Mark Twain said, “The rain is famous for falling on the just and unjust alike, but if I had the management of such affairs I would rain softly and sweetly on the just, but if I caught a sample of the unjust out doors I would drown him.” I do so hope God has not put him in charge. I would have to stay on the porch. David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed at www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.